


Highway's Killing Me

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Body Modification, Branding, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Castiel, Confused Dean, Drama, Emotional Constipation, Family Feels, Gen, Guilty Castiel, Headcanon, Human Castiel, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Season Seven that Wasn't, Slash, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, glacial build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys take steps to keep Cas safe, and Dean hides.  A followup and expansion on some of the events referenced in “The Writing on the Wall.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highway's Killing Me

_June 2012_

They should have known. In retrospect, Sam felt pretty damn stupid for not thinking of it much earlier. It was just that Cas had been unplugged, and that was it, right? They’d known he shouldn’t be out and about or anything, what with him being involved with some seriously bad shit and making the news. So they kept him out of the public eye, safely hidden away at Bobby’s place, so no one would recognize him and there wouldn’t be any trouble. If he just lay low, then things would be fine, right?

It had been pretty dumb of them to assume that no one would _actively_ look for him.

Cas had been tearing through humans left and right, especially at the end, but that hadn’t been all he’d done. He’d been decimating the ranks of Heaven, too, wiping out any angels who didn’t follow him. Oh, and mustn’t forget Crowley’s little flock—seems that demons, being ex-souls, were still a tasty snack in a pinch, so on top of snatching fresh souls away from Hell, he’d also been nibbling on the natives, too—and all that on top of royally stabbing Crowley in the back. To say nothing of the monsters still on earth—theirs were the kinds of souls he’d swallowed up in the first place, so he had no issues with eating the ones that hadn’t gotten to Purgatory yet. Oh, yeah, and he was also ultimately responsible for getting the mom of all the monsters killed, too.

Cas had plenty of fanatical followers, but in the process he had made himself some seriously powerful enemies.

Dean and Sam had left Bobby’s only a week after…whatever had happened in the field to bring Cas down off his trip. Sam still didn’t know exactly what it had been; when Sam and Bobby had cornered him and tried to ask what happened, Dean had yelled that he didn’t remember and stomped off. Yeah—kind of like he didn’t remember Hell, either.

No, Dean just didn’t want to think about anything that happened involving Cas; Sam had thought he’d gotten a grip on himself after their talk that morning, but no, something else must have happened (and what it was did not bear thinking about; any evidence as to what it might have been was nothing but ashes, buried in a shallow grave in Bobby’s back yard), and now Dean was jumpy, snappish, and avoiding Cas like the plague. Not just that, either—he wouldn’t even _talk_ about Cas now. Any time either of them started talking about Cas, whether it was about what he’d been doing or even _how_ he was doing, Dean would jump up and go hide outside until the conversation was over. The longer it went on, the more tightly wound Dean became, so, by mutual unspoken agreement, Sam and Bobby decided that they needed to get Dean out of the house and back into a nice, normal routine.

Despite the general quiet on the supernatural front leading up to Cas’s last days as the new God, Bobby had managed to rustle up some news about kidnappings and exsanguinated bodies. Nothing like a vampire hunt to spruce up your day. At least Dean seemed to think so; he was gung-ho to leave the minute he heard about it, and they were out and on the road at the butt-crack of dawn the next morning.

Again, Sam wasn’t feeling too smart at the moment—the trail of bodies leading to the abandoned barn was so obvious that if he’d been even halfway on his game, he’d have known it was a trap.

They’d both been clubbed the minute they’d walked in, and had come to tied up and surrounded by a dozen extremely pissed-off fangs.

“Where is he?” the apparent leader snarled, her teeth out and her breath hot and coppery.

They honestly hadn’t known who she meant at first, but the vampire had cleared that up in a hurry. “Big scary angel killing everybody, and then suddenly he vanishes?” she drawled. “We’ve seen enough to know when something _that_ big is put down, you two will be at the center of it. Now, where the _fuck_ is Castiel?”

They’d claimed that he was dead, but unfortunately, in their initial surprise when they realized who the vamps were after, they’d caught each other’s eye, and the vamps saw it. They didn’t believe Cas was dead for a minute, and they were prepared to take fairly extreme measures to find out where he was. Their Alpha had a bone to pick with him; Dean hadn’t helped by smartly telling them that they could get in line, and he got belted in the mouth for his troubles.

Things were looking a bit grim there for a while—until, completely unexpectedly, the barn door swung open again. The trail of bodies _was_ obvious; Bobby hadn’t been the only hunter to find it.

Sam had never been so happy to see Garth’s skinny ass in his life.

His appearance had been just the distraction they needed; it gave Dean time to wrangle the knife out of his sleeve and cut himself loose and then get Sam out, too, and after a brief tussle for their machetes, they got to swinging (and protecting Garth, who’d managed to get himself clocked in the head and was out for the count). Sam and Dean had worked their way through most of them, but twelve against two was not good odds, even with the syringe of dead man’s blood that Dean had tucked in his boot, and a few of them got away.

Garth didn’t wake up till it was all over, popping up from behind his bale of hay wanting to know what he’d missed. He’d agreed to take care of clean-up and, after thanking him for bailing them out and enduring his rather uncomfortable goodbye hugs, Sam and Dean had left.

But now they had to figure out what to do about Cas.

Those vamps who more or less knew that he was still alive and that Sam and Dean knew where he was had escaped to tell the tale, and God knew who or what else was gunning for him. Just camping out at Bobby’s wasn’t enough; Cas had to go under.

Just like they had, back when Cas had been out to get _them_.

* * *

_Eight months earlier_

They couldn’t talk. They couldn’t plan. They couldn’t do jack shit, not with Cas on their shoulders now. He’d buzzed off the night he’d declared himself God, letting them know in no uncertain terms that they were only alive because of his dubious mercy, and if they set a toe out of line, they’d regret it.

And then nothing happened. All was quiet, and since they had no leads, no weapons, and no apparent case, there wasn’t much they could do about it. Despite Sam’s head being in pretty bad shape (and his getting roofied by an insane fangirl) and Dean’s escalating drinking problem, they tried to go about their business, but then…things started. People started dying—not-so-nice people like Nazis and Klansmen, granted, but it was still murder. After the news started reporting that eyewitnesses were being found at the scenes of the crimes, all saying it was the Hand of God that had smote them and it was justice and crap like that, it didn’t take long for them to realize that it was Cas, purging his so-called kingdom of the people that he didn’t want in it.

And when they tentatively started trying to discuss what they should do about it, Cas himself showed up. He’d said it was pointless to force them to bow to him so he didn’t care what they did, but it seemed that he’d re-considered—now he did want them to worship and love him, and he was planning all sorts of ways to get them to do it—and _mean_ it.

So, yeah—they were up that well-traveled creek without any means of propulsion.

They were holed up at Bobby’s house; they couldn’t hide from Cas, but at least it was hidden and protected from just about anything else that might be looking for them. It was a start, anyway.

Dean was not in good shape. Sam and Bobby had been exchanging worried glances behind his back ever since Cas had showed up and placidly informed them that it was only a matter of time, that they would bow before him eventually and take their place in his gathering flock. Dean was hitting the booze and hard, and he refused to talk about anything Cas-related.

Sam had just stood up to go get a beer for himself, but then about jumped out of his skin at the loud blast of a horn outside.

Bobby was at the window like a shot, Sam close behind; Dean didn’t move; he just sat staring dully at whatever he was watching on Sam’s laptop. They two of them peered out of the window to see a huge, mean-looking semi-truck pulling up into the lot; the tractor was black and chrome but utterly nondescript, just like the long white trailer behind it. It looked like something out of _Trucks_.

“Is that—?” Bobby squinted at the hand Sam could see waving in the windshield, and then the horn sounded again and Bobby said, “Well, I’ll be damned—it’s Addie.”

“Who’s Addie?” Sam asked as the truck pulled right up to the front door.

“A hunter—and one of the best I’ve ever met,” Bobby said. “Not as much for killin’ things—that was you boys and your dad—but just for _knowin’_ things. She’s probably forgotten ten times more information about killin’ shit than I have in my whole library.”

“Then why the hell haven’t you called her before?” Dean’s voice was rough and sharp.

Bobby just glanced back at him. “‘Cause you don’t call Addie—Addie calls you. That’s another thing,” he said as he turned back to Sam. “It’s eerie, how good she is at stayin’ off the grid and outta sight. Swear she must have some kinda serious hex bag or spell or somethin’. She’s damned near invisible.”

Bobby stumped to the door and went out; Sam followed, and shortly after Dean did too, his curiosity apparently getting the better of his apathetic depression. The engine cut as they approached, and the door swung open.

What stumbled out Sam would not have initially been able to identify as female. She wasn’t tall, but she was just _big_ ; not fat, but thickly-muscled all over, like a linebacker. She wore the ubiquitous hunter jeans, boots, and flannel, only it was topped by a long leather duster. Her hair was about the color and texture of straw, and it gave her the appearance of a scarecrow, sticking out at crazy angles beneath the ratty old fedora perched on her head. One eye was a watery blue, but the other was covered by an eye patch, and a big black cigar was clamped firmly between her teeth.

“Bobby!” she crowed with a voice like breaking bricks, shambling over to him with a limping gait and seizing him in a hug that lifted him clear off his feet.

“Hey, there, Addie,” Bobby wheezed as she put him down. “God, how long has it been?”

“At least ten years—and you’ve sure been busy in the interim, from what I gather,” she added, to which Bobby only rolled his eyes in weary agreement. Her one good eye cast over to where Sam and Dean were standing, giving them an obvious once-over. “You gonna introduce me to Derek and Hansel, here?” she asked, to Sam’s displeasure.

Bobby snorted. “These’re Sam and Dean Winchester,” he said. “Boys, this is Addie Jones.”

Addie had been approaching them, but stopped short when she heard their names. “Are you really?” she asked interestedly, taking her cigar out of her mouth to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned—it’s a real pleasure to meet you boys, and I’m glad to get the chance, since we all owe you both some pretty big thanks.”

Sam was slightly nonplussed as he shook her hand; her grip was like a vise. “That whole Apocalypse business?” she said, sounding amused, and Sam blinked. “Understand you boys did the world one hell of a favor—really took one for the team, stickin’ it to those winged assholes. Well done, boys—and my hat’s off to you.”

Sam didn’t quite know what to say; there had been some seriously pissed-off people on their case when they’d _started_ the Apocalypse, but no one had ever thanked them for stopping it before. He muttered an unintelligible thanks; Dean just smiled uncomfortably and then winced when she shook his hand, surreptitiously shaking it his fingers when she let go.

“Actually, that’s kinda why I’m here,” she said, turning back to Bobby. “Been followin’ the news lately—some weird shit goin’ down, and you bunch seem to be in or around it. Spotted your face in particular, Bobby, on the news at nine—saw you in the background when they were doin’ a report on those dead inspirational speakers, and everybody knows that where one of you is, the other two can’t be far behind. Was kinda on the outskirts durin’ the Armageddon dust-up and just spent the last year icin’ crazy-ass monsters, but thought I’d come directly to the source for info this time.”

Bobby’s face turned grim; Dean looked off. “Well, that’s a pretty long story,” he grunted. “And…we can’t really talk about it.”

“Why not?” Addie asked.

“Because…we’re kind of being watched by the guy that’s doing it,” Sam said.

Addie just grinned. “You _were_ bein’ watched. But I’m here now.” At their blank looks, she chuckled. “Trust me when I say that short of God himself, there ain’t nothin’ what can listen in on me, and as long as I’m with you, you’re in the clear too. So,” she said, leaning in to Bobby and waggling here eyebrows and her cigar like Groucho Marx. “Why don’t you give ol’ Addie the lowdown, and I’ll see what I can do to help.”

* * *

Addie whistled, sitting back in her chair. Dean had clammed up immediately the minute she’d asked for info, as he had been on all topics Cas-related for the past week, so it had fallen to Sam and Bobby to give a rough outline of what Cas had done—and what he was doing now. “Well, that’s a damn shame; hate to hear of a good kid goin’ bad, even if he was an angel,” she said, shaking her head.

Dean made an ugly noise from the bottle he’d crawled into when they started this discussion. “Yeah, well, everything else in this world is for shit—why not God, too?” he said. Sam flicked a concerned look at him; he must have managed to get drunk to say something like that.

Addie raised her eyebrow. “Mostly ‘cause someone ain’t God just ‘cause he says he is,” she said dryly. “And I am living proof that God is still in your corner.”

Sam and Bobby looked skeptically at her (Dean didn’t look at her at all). “Just how do you figure that one?” Bobby wanted to know.

She grinned. “You boys wanna see the inside of my humble abode?”

Sam wasn’t quite sure how to take that statement, delivered as it was in that insinuating tone with the waggled eyebrow, but Bobby’s eyes widened. “Damn, woman—hell yes, I wanna see what you got stashed in there!”

Addie laughed. “Oh, I bet you do,” she chuckled. “I’ve got resources and materials and Lord knows what stashed all over this country, but I keep the _really_ good stuff with me.” She heaved herself out of her chair. “Well, come on, fellas—why don’t you drop in?”

She swung out the door, her stride long and her pace brisk despite the stiff leg she swung to the side with every step, and Bobby jumped up and followed her immediately. Dean was still sitting morosely at the table; Sam kicked the leg of his chair. “Come on!” he hissed; Dean gave him a very ugly look but grudgingly got up to follow, his steps heavy but sure and not the least bit wobbly.

Addie had gone around to the back of the trailer, unlocking the latch with the ring of keys that jingled at her belt. The back slid up—to reveal a huge metal door that at first glance looked like a _vault_ , with a huge rotating lock like you’d see at a bank and big riveted metal straps criss-crossing the surface. It wasn’t until closer inspection that Sam realized that it was covered with engraving. He spotted Latin, Greek, what he thought was Aramaic, Hieroglyphics, Cuneiform—even freaking Enochian—and a dozen other symbols and languages that he couldn’t identify. And it was obvious that the metal wasn’t just the door, but that it extended to the sides as well. The trailer was just a cover—Addie was hauling around a goddamn warded iron box.

Addie had used the bar on the back of the trailer to haul herself up to unlock the door, giving the combination and then spinning the wheel; the door let out a hiss as it disengaged, and she jumped down to let the massive door swing open. She took the cigar out of her mouth, and in an exaggerated Transylvanian accent, said, “Velcome.”

It was…surprisingly modern inside. Addie dragged herself right back up onto the trailer and strode in, lights coming on automatically, leaving Sam, Bobby, and Dean to scramble in after her. At the far end, Sam could see the winking lights of a large computer database, with its own portable climate control and power source. Along one side of the trailer ran a deep bookcase, all the shelves custom-sized and covered in Plexiglas, holding books and scrolls and stone and clay tablets that looked so old that they might have been from the Library of Alexandria—if not older. On the other side were rows and rows of cases holding all manner of beautifully maintained hunting equipment—from the standard guns, salt and holy water to more exotic weapons, like blades of unusual or rare materials. Oh, and a minigun.

Dean had stopped and stared in admiration at that baby for a minute until Sam shook him out of it and dragged him down to the far end where Addie was standing. “Now,” she was saying, “most of my goodies are in lockboxes in banks and such, although I keep digital scans of everything here.” She patted the whirring database. “But the really serious shit, the stuff that I wanna keep close, or the things that you need the actual books to make work, that’s all here.” She flung a hand at the rows of shelves. “And right here,” she keyed in a code on the case nearest to her; it hissed as the seal released and she swung the glass cover aside to gingerly pull out a papyrus scroll, “may be the solution to the problem of the angel in your pocket.”

There was a long, narrow table bolted to the floor in the middle of the trailer; Addie bunted them all aside and laid the scroll out on it, delicately unrolling the ancient papyrus. “Any of you boys read Ancient Hebrew?” she asked abruptly.

Sam floundered, stuttering a little, before he spotted the twinkle in her eye. Bobby snorted. “Sorry—they traded brains for looks,” he said dryly, and Addie chuckled. Dean was not amused; neither was Sam.

“Well, what about you, then, Gorgeous?” she asked Bobby, looking at him with a gimlet eye.

Bobby shrugged. “I can muddle through,” he said.

“Well, muddlin’ takes a little time, so how about I give you the run down,” Addie said. “I hope that you boys are at least up on your Bible, given the company you keep.”

Sam’s mouth pursed. “Yeah—we got pretty well acquainted with Revelation a few years ago,” he said tightly.

“How ‘bout the other end of it?” she asked. “A little Genesis?” At the blank looks from the three of them, not knowing where she was going, she looked down at the scroll and tapped a line of text. “Genesis 4:15,” she said, and then quoted, “‘But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one could find him and kill him.’” She looked up at them expectantly. “Right there,” she said, turning her head and breathing out a cloud of smoke to one side before pointing at a bizarre, twisted symbol in the middle of the scroll, a shape that looked like the Artist Formerly Known as an Enochian symbol. “The Mark of Cain.”

Silence. Then, “Wait—you mean, the _real_ Mark of Cain?” Dean asked incredulously. “As in, the mark on—on _Cain_? Adam and Eve’s boy?”

“The original,” Addie said, puffing on her cigar in satisfaction. “As in, put on Cain by God Himself—that’s what it looked like.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean said in disbelief; Sam was glad that he was voicing his thoughts on the matter so Dean could sound like the douche and not him.

Addie chuckled. “My family has been doin’ this hunting gig for a long, _long_ time,” she said simply.

“Damn,” Bobby said. “So—you’re sayin’ that anybody with this mark on ‘em is invisible?” he asked, and then his eyes narrowed; Addie was smirking. “You’ve got one, don’t you,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

Addie chuckled and then laid open a few buttons on her shirt and pulled down her collar, and there on her weathered skin between the cups of her industrial-looking bra, was the symbol, branded just over her heart.

“No wonder nobody ever knows where you are,” Bobby said, sounding both flabbergasted and annoyed.

Addie grinned. “A girl’s gotta have her secrets,” she said, buttoning her shirt. “This one’s been passed down my family for millennia—because you can’t _just_ be branded with it,” she said seriously. “You gotta be given the brand with a special iron,” she explained, jerking her chin behind them, and they turned to see a long, ancient branding iron hanging in one of the cases that lined the wall, “and it’s gotta be done by someone who’s already got it, with their blood wetting the iron. So you can see,” she said, her mouth wry, “when I say it’s been passed down for thousands of years, I mean it literally—’cause the original Mark could only be passed down from Cain himself, and here it is,” she finished, tapping her chest. “And now,” she added, stubbing out her cigar on her palm and tucking it away in a pocket in her coat, “I’m here to pass it on to you.”

“You mean—you mean you can give us this—this Mark,” Sam said slowly, “and then Cas can’t find us?”

“Not the angel, or any other man or beast out to get you. It won’t keep you safe from findin’ them,” she warned, “but while you can still go to them, they can’t come to you. Total invisibility. And there’s even a bright side to if you wander into a den of beasts and they kill you,” she added cheerfully. “If that happens, you can die happy, ‘cause you’ll be safe in the knowledge that they’ll be followin’ you shortly, and in a way that’s a hell of a lot worse than how you just went out. I’ve seen it.”

Sam looked at Bobby and Dean; this was still sinking in, that they did have if not a weapon against Cas, at least a way to hide from him, when Addie spoke again, and her voice was serious. “But the offer comes with a warning: this Mark wasn’t a gift, boys—it was a curse.” She looked down at the scroll and read, “Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”

She looked up, and her face was grim. “You take the Mark, and you’re safe and hidden from all your enemies—but you’re doomed to the life of a wanderer. No settling down, no permanence, no home but what you can carry with you.” She looked all around the trailer they were standing in. “I live here—got all my supplies back here, and live outta the cab. Oh, I can stop off places; visitin’, as it were, comin’ to see other hunters,” she gestured to Bobby. “But I can never stop, never set down roots,” she said, and her one eye bored into them. “I’ll always be a restless wanderer on the earth.”

* * *

In the end, it hadn’t taken them long to decide. Oh, they’d laid out the pros and cons, but there really was only one choice they could make. They had to find a way to stop Cas, and to do that, they had to hide from him long enough to do so.

“We’ve been wanderin’ our whole lives,” Dean had said roughly. “That doesn’t seem like it’s gonna change any time in the future, does it? I mean, we’ve both tried to ‘set down roots,’ or whatever, and look how that ended.” He took a pull on his whiskey bottle, and spoke again, and this time, Sam didn’t think he meant to do it aloud. “I think we’re cursed already, anyway.”

At Sam’s look, he forced a smile of sorts that was utterly unconvincing. “Hey—there’s worse things than being Kwai Chang Caine,” he said. “So come on, Grasshopper—let’s do this.”

Dean demanded to go first; Addie said there wasn’t any particular place to put the brand, so Dean had stripped out of his shirt and pointed to his upper right shoulder. Addie had heated the surprisingly delicate branding iron, and, when it was red-hot, had sliced open her hand and bled on it; it hissed as she recited a few short words in Hebrew, and Sam was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the strange little wisps of light that were crawling the length of the iron when she was finished.

Sam reflexively cringed when she pressed the iron to the unmarred skin of his brother’s shoulder; there was a hiss and a smell of cooking meat, and Dean let out a strangled grunt of pain, and then it was done. Addie stuck the iron back in the fire and then leaned over and slapped some ointment and a bandage on the wound.

Dean had wanted to know how to do it, since now he could pass the Mark on; Addie seemed pleased with his initiative and told him what to do, and Dean had ordered Sam to get over here so he could give him his.

It hurt like a bitch, that was for damn sure—worse than any brand or burn he’d ever had on Earth, anyway—but it was over quick enough, and he was bandaged up in short order while Addie took care of Bobby.

And that had been the end of it; she left them with a branding iron of their own and the instructions on how to make more before heading out, promising to contact them if she dug up anything that could help them with Cas. Then the three of them packed up what they needed, closed up Bobby’s house, and then hit the road.

It sucked to think that Bobby would never be back at, well, Bobby’s, but in the end, Cas had taken care of that. He’d noticed immediately when they dropped off his radar, and he’d been right pissed about it. They’d found out when Sam had finally been hospitalized with his head full of Lucifer. Bobby, in a moment of desperation, had gone behind Dean’s back and finally prayed to Cas to ask him—or beg him, rather—to come fix Sam. Cas had shown up with a human follower in tow and _generously_ pulled out as much of Sam’s crazy as he could and put it into the poor, deluded bastard instead and left him there to die. After that, though, they’d found out just how powerful that Mark was—because Cas had immediately tried to remove it and it hadn’t budged. He’d left, then, saying it was no consequence and he had no time to bother with them because he was amassing his followers—and promising that he’d find them again, whether it be personally or through the use of his new flock. And, of course, they never _did_ find them, just as Addie said—but that didn’t stop the three of them from finding the people hunting them again.

They’d been sneaking back into Bobby’s house for some books when they’d been surprised by some of Cas’s lackeys who were staking the place out. And they’d gunned Bobby down on sight; he’d been dead before he hit the floor.

Sam and Dean had opened fire on the cultists with extreme prejudice, but Cas had had fifteen of the bastards waiting there and they were quickly overpowered. After that, the sick sons of bitches prayed to Cas to summon him, eager to please their god and give him a present, hoping for some kind of reward or something—and what they’d gotten was not pretty. Cas himself had appeared in short order, and he’d taken one look at Bobby’s cooling body before turning on his little followers, saying he’d wanted the three of them _alive_ , and then Sam and Dean had been splattered with gore when the nine cultists that hadn’t caught Sam and Dean’s bullets promptly _exploded_. Addie hadn’t been lying about the retribution part of the Mark.

It had been their first sight of Cas in a while, and their first inkling that he had not been in very good shape. But he’d still had the wherewithal to bring Bobby back…but it seemed that once a person was dead, the Mark of Cain was voided. Cas had removed the Mark from Bobby’s corpse before he’d put him back, and that time, it worked. Bobby was back on his radar again. 

But they hadn’t gotten around to branding him again—in fact, Bobby had insisted that they not, because he wanted to go back to staying at home for a while since they were starting to cook up the crazy plan of working with Crowley and harnessing Death. So long as Sam or Dean stayed with him to keep him hidden, things were fine and he could stay at the house when they needed him the most for research and resources and communication with their demonic ally. Then Death had showed up on his own and helped them unplug Cas anyway, and that had been that.

So, Sam and Dean were back on the road as usual, and Bobby was back at home like he should be.

Now the problem was what to do with Cas.

When they’d limped their way home after the botched vamp hunt and Sam had been told what had happened to Bobby and Cas (because Dean was hiding—again), Sam had been appalled when Cas’s immediate solution was that he give himself up because he was obviously endangering them all. Bobby’d told Cas what he could do with that plan before Sam could tell him in a more tactful manner that they wouldn’t be doing that. But it hadn’t taken them long to come to the conclusion that it was time to pass the Mark on again—the only problem was they weren’t sure if it would work.

“Thing about that Mark is that you get that wanderer curse on you—and you can’t wander, Cas,” Bobby said.

“I can,” Cas replied quietly. “I can…go on my own. I don’t—”

“You can’t make toast without hurtin’ yourself, you moron. Put away your martyr act,” Bobby interrupted flatly. The worst part about that was that it was true—because Bobby had in fact caught Cas trying to stick a fork in the toaster yesterday morning. “Now, you ain’t goin’ nowhere, boy. So stick to the subject—how’re we gonna get around that?”

Cas sat in silence for a moment, his hands clasped in his lap, and then he looked up again. “I…believe I can take this Mark and be allowed to stay here. I’m not human—not entirely. And if I am allowed to…visit a place, I believe staying here for a few decades before…before I die is a very small fraction to the eons of life I have lived already.” His eyes closed for a moment, and then he stared at his hands. “And I have already left my home. I’m…barred from Heaven and can’t go back. I am…already wandering.”

Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “Sounds…reasonable. But we don’t know for sure. Cas, are you _positive_ you want to risk this? If it turns out you’re wrong, I’m not…I’m not really sure if we can keep you as safe as we need to. I mean, you could travel on the road with Dean and I when we hunt, that’d probably get you wandering enough—works for us, anyway,” he said, knowing that if Dean found out he’d just made that offer, he’d probably kill him—God, the idea of having to travel with Dean while Cas was in the back seat…

“I say we burn that bridge when we get there,” Bobby said brusquely, bringing Sam back to the present. “You’re one powerful spell away from bein’ found by pissed-off monsters or pissed-off angels—or worse, the pissed-off King of Hell. We’ve gotta hide you now, and deal with the consequences later, if they happen. Let’s just hope you’re right, Cas.”

Cas licked his lips. “All right.”

* * *

Sam and Bobby decided it’d be better to wait for Dean to show back up before they branded Cas, mostly so they could tell him what was going on. He’d obviously not wanted to talk about anything relating to Cas and had actually _delayed_ it, saying he needed to go to the bathroom and then he needed to go out because he’d forgotten to put his tools away and now he wanted to eat lunch because he was hungry, but they pinned him down over sandwiches and he’d grudgingly listened and agreed that Cas needed protection.

“Well, since I got wiped, the only thing I can help you boys with is the holdin’ down, unfortunately,” Bobby sighed.

“Holding—you think we need to hold him down?” Sam asked, confused.

Bobby gave him a wry look. “Yeah. I do. While you boys were out, you didn’t get to see him hit his funny bone for the first time. You’d think he’d just been _shot_ , he was dancin’ around and making so much noise. Guess he’s feelin’ pain differently than he used to, and it’s a bit—how did he put it— _overwhelming._ The human way’s apparently hella worse than feelin’ it like an angel and he’s not used to it yet.” Bobby gave a rough chuckle. “That, or he’s a wimp and has no pain tolerance.”

“Fine, whatever,” Dean grunted. “You two hold him and I’ll brand him.”

“You sure?” Sam said. “‘Cause I can—”

“ _I got it_ ,” Dean interrupted roughly, and then stomped off to get the branding iron out of Bobby’s safe room.

Sam sighed. “I guess I’ll go get Cas, then.”

Bobby just shook his head. “Guess you’d better, yeah.” He snorted. “Idjit.”

Cas was waiting upstairs, as he’d been told to do, and was sitting at the little table in his room and staring at nothing, which was disconcerting. “Hey, Cas,” Sam said. “Well…come on downstairs. Guess we’re gonna do this.”

Cas got up, and Sam noted that he didn’t look nervous or hesitant about this at all—if Bobby was right about that whole pain thing, he had a feeling that Cas was about to be in for the nastiest surprise of his life. Sam had managed to keep his head when it had been his turn, of course, as had the rest of them, despite it being worse than the average branding, but that was because years of being kicked around, stomped on, stabbed, shot, and friggin’ _killed_ had pretty much sent his pain tolerance through the roof.

Cas did not have this advantage.

“It’s, uh…it’s gonna hurt, you know,” Sam warned him.

“I know.”

“And it’s gonna hurt for a while.”

“I know.”

Sam didn’t know if he _really_ knew, but he guessed they’d find out in a few minutes.

They set up by Bobby’s fireplace. Dean already had it going and had the iron in the coals. He didn’t acknowledge Cas, and Cas didn’t even try to communicate with him. He just pulled off his shirt and sat down on the stool Bobby had set by the fire as Bobby reread the incantation for Dean’s benefit just to make sure he pronounced it correctly like he had when he’d branded Sam—only doing it once didn’t mean it was dedicated to memory. But Dean recited it back accurately (if bitchily), so Sam knew there wouldn’t be a problem.

Cas stayed silent while everyone worked around him. Sam busied himself with the first aid they would be needing after it was all said and done while Bobby reiterated that it was going to hurt like a mother and Dean ignored Cas. Cas just nodded, occasionally glancing over at Dean’s back and sighing unhappily.

Sam really hoped that things would even out soon—for Bobby’s sake, if anything, because he had to live with this.

“It’s hot enough,” Dean said abruptly. “It’s go time. Let’s get this over with.”

Sam and Bobby nodded, moving to stand next to Cas as Dean began the incantation, slicing his palm open with his knife as he did. His blood dripped onto the iron, sizzling and hissing, and the iron sparked with light just as it had when Dean had used it to brand Sam. Then he grabbed the other end and pulled it up, almost holding it like a weapon as he steeled himself and set his jaw, finally facing Cas.

Cas looked a little confused when Sam and Bobby moved to hold his upper arms in a firm, tight grip, but he still didn’t say anything. Dean stared for a moment at Cas, and then he pressed the red-hot iron to Cas’s back, right side on the shoulder, where his own and Sam’s were.

Cas _screamed_.

He screamed, and he suddenly jerked against Bobby and Sam’s grip more fiercely than Sam imagined he could’ve, flailing so much he kicked the stool right out from under himself and nearly fell to the ground. He and Bobby held him up, though, Sam bracing himself more firmly and making sure Cas didn’t wiggle free and hurt himself further or mess up the branding.

“ _I—stop, please, stop it—!_ ” Cas’s shrieks were horrible and high and panicked as he sobbed out the words.

“Cas, just hang on, it’s almost done!” Sam shouted over him, and then he looked frantically up at Dean even as he counted down the five seconds you had to hold it there to make it stick—

—and he saw Dean, looking just as agonized and panicked and horrified as Cas’s flesh burned—

“Dean!” Bobby barked. “Pull it off, the five are up!”

Dean yanked the iron off of Cas and all but threw it down onto the hearth with a clatter as he staggered backwards, and he was shaky and pale and breathing hard, but Sam couldn’t ask him about it because he was turning away, his fist by his mouth, and he had a more pressing issue anyway: Cas was starting to hyperventilate as he collapsed to the floor on his knees when Bobby let him go.

“Cas, it’s over!” Sam said quickly as Bobby went for the first aid. “It’s over, you’re okay!”

“I—I know—but I—” Jesus, he could barely talk, and tears were pouring down his cheeks as he shook violently and tried to breathe. “I can’t— _Sam_ —I c-can’t—”

“Take deep breaths, Cas, come on—”

“I—trying—Dean—Dean, _I need—Dean—!_ ”

“Cas, you gotta calm down,” Sam continued, because Dean was already gone and wouldn’t have helped even if he’d stayed here— _Dammit, Dean!_ “Come on, just calm—”

“ _I can’t—c-can’t—w-what’s hap-happen—_ ” Cas was going full-on hysterical, and Sam could tell he couldn’t breathe and that was making it worse—

“ _Castiel!_ ” Bobby bellowed, storming over and reaching out and whacking him upside the head. Then he grabbed his upper arms and shook him hard. “Look at me, dammit! _No_ , you look at me— _now!_ ”

Cas’s eyes were wild and frantic and his breath was still coming in short, wheezing bursts, but he looked.

“Breathe _in_ ,” Bobby ordered.

“Bobby—”

“ _Breathe in, dammit!_ ” Bobby snarled.

Cas’s hands curled into fists, gripping his sweats tightly, and he finally breathed in, trembling violently as he squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to suck in a short, whistling breath.

“Now breathe out— _slowly._ ”

Again, he did as he was told.

“Back in.”

Cas’s chest hitched as he slowly sucked in another breath, but Sam did notice it was deeper than the last one.

“Out.”

Bobby kept working him through each breath, and Sam finally decided to stop sitting there uselessly and took over where Bobby had left off with the gauze and burn salve. He reached down and righted the stool, and then went in to wash his hands so he could take care of Cas’s burn. He could hear Bobby getting Cas back on his feet and back onto his stool, and when he turned around, Cas was finally under control, if still white and trembling.

“Now, Sam’s gonna patch up your brand—that’s gonna hurt too, but _not_ as bad as what just happened, and if you thrash around, it’s not gonna heal. You stay still, you hear me?” Bobby demanded.

“Y-yes,” Cas whispered.

Bobby held his gaze for a second more before he finally released him, sitting up and stumping over to the fireplace and lifting the iron from where Dean had thrown it—luckily on the hearth stones and not the floor—grumbling under his breath. Sam didn’t waste any time in getting to work, getting a generous helping of salve on his fingers and, as gently as possible, slowly dabbing it onto the Mark. Cas hissed and shuddered a bit, but he stayed in his seat.

“Sorry,” Sam said quietly. “Worst is over, though. It’ll hurt for a while, but not like that. Won’t hurt hardly at all in a few weeks.”

Cas stayed quiet while Sam bandaged his brand. Sam didn’t try to talk to him; better to just let him sit so he could get control over himself. Once everything was set, though, Sam did talk.

“You doing okay now? Well, as okay as you can be?” he asked.

Cas stared at his feet. “I could feel it…binding me. It…hurt. I’m sorry.” Before Sam could tell him that he didn’t need to apologize because apparently, he just felt more of the mojo than even they had, Cas continued. “I…I don’t—I don’t understand why I couldn’t…control myself.” He looked up at Sam, miserable and confused. “I wanted to _stop_ , but—”

“Cas, don’t,” Sam said quickly, not wanting him to get worked up again. “It—that wasn’t your fault. That’s just part of humanity. You just…were a little hysterical for a bit, is all. And you’re calmed down now, right? You’re okay.”

He picked Cas’s shirt up off the table nearby and handed it to him. “If you want, you can just leave that off for a bit. We’re gonna have to take the bandage off and wash it in an hour, okay?”

Cas nodded, sniffing a little. “Where—” he began, but then stopped, looking away.

Sam’s mouth thinned. “I’m not sure where Dean went, Cas, but…but he’s not mad at you. I do know that.” Sam hesitated, and then continued, not giving a damn about Dean’s bullshit right now—not after he just dropped everything and up and ran the fuck away while Cas was having a complete breakdown— _especially_ when it was more than obvious that Cas needed Dean right now. “He left because he didn’t like hurting you, Cas. He was upset about that, not about you.”

Cas still looked ten kinds of unhappy, but at least Sam’s words worked as they were supposed to—Cas’s expression lifted just the tiniest bit.

Sam huffed a little, patting his good shoulder gingerly and then going over to clean up the first aid kit and put it away. 

Well—that was that, he supposed. They were stuck with Cas for good now, whether Dean liked it or not.


End file.
